


backwards through the glass

by crownsandbirds



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Canon Compliant, Consent Issues, Law Procedures, Morning After, Multi, Non-Chronological, Post-Divorce, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, its fucked up, oh god this is so hard to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-21 07:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18139052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/pseuds/crownsandbirds
Summary: "Breathing is the hardest part of swimming. When you're in the water, you need to know when to go up and get yourself alive again.Mizaistom has always been good at surviving. He's not good at life, but he's good at surviving."bits and pieces of Mizaistom's life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "The way you slam your body into mine reminds me  
> I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling,  
> and they're only a few steps behind you, finding  
> the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't  
> stitched up quite right, the place they could almost  
> slip right into through if the skin wasn't trying to  
> keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side  
> of the theater where the curtain keeps rising."
> 
> (snow and dirty rain - richard siken)
> 
> TW: implied sexual content, consent issues, terribly unhealthy sexual content (please do NOT do this its WRONG and BAD)  
> if you want to skip the worst part of it, just skip the entire second scene!

Mizaistom likes swimming. 

 

The pool is very blue, and lonely. It's in the lower ground of the Hunter Association gym, and the water is warm and the last swimmers leave at some point around one in the morning, which leaves the place empty for Mizaistom's repeated strong strokes and the water sliding against his body. 

 

Swimming is peaceful. It's lonely. For the entirety of the 25 meters-length of the very blue pool, he doesn't think about anything else other than reaching the wall on the other side and the timing of his breathing. 

 

He floats. He swims and he tires himself out and when he finishes 6 laps he stops at the edge and props himself up on his arms and pants as he tries to catch his breath. 

 

Breathing is the hardest part of swimming. When you're in the water, you need to know when to go up and get yourself alive again. 

 

Mizaistom has always been good at surviving. He's not good at life, but he's good at surviving. 

 

He pushes against the wall and starts another lap. It's a different dimension, here. 

  
  


-

  
  


Pariston is immensely cruel.

 

Tears slide down Mizaistom’s face. His wrists are tied to the headboard of the king-sized bed of the master bedroom of the penthouse. He has his eyes closed. Pariston grants him the small mercy of not forcing him to look at him in the eye when they're doing  _ this.  _ Pariston's big brown eyes are endlessly maniacal and terrifying. The darkness in the back of Mizaistom’s eyelids is more comforting.

 

The cold tip of the blade rests against his closed right eyelid. 

 

"This is your first no," Pariston whispers, very close to his ear. "You only get two more. You remember the rules, right?"

 

Mizaistom nods. He's good with rules. He follows rules well. He's obedient. Always has been. 

 

"Good boy," Pariston presses a kiss to the side of his face and traces his cheek with his thumb. It feels condescending. Mizaistom leans into his touch. The sharp tip rasps against his skin for a second before Pariston takes it away. 

 

Mizaistom keeps his eyes closed. 

 

A pair of cold lips trace down his neck, wandering fingers trail up his thigh. He stays very still, the knife now back just between his ribs. 

 

There's a sharp bite near his pulse point. He gasps and arches off the bed. Pariston laughs. He's mean. 

 

The lips get close to the jagged, ugly scar on top of his collarbone. He pulls at the restraints, for a second too disturbed to remember he's tied down at all. 

 

"No," he whispers softly. "Not there."

 

_ Get away,  _ his mind screams at him.  _ Stop. Get away and stop.  _ He can feel himself shaking.

 

Pariston stops. Sits back, straddling Mizaistom's legs. 

 

"You mean the scar?" he asks. 

 

Mizai opens his eyes. Pariston is licking the tip of the blade absently. 

 

"Yes. Don't - just, don't."

 

Pariston shrugs. The motion is delicate and graceful, as if he couldn't care less either way. It's beautiful. Sometimes, Pariston is too cruelly pretty to be a human. Mizai doubts he's human, every now and then. Maybe this is why they do this to each other. In this big comfortable bed in the penthouse of the tallest building in Swardani, they can both go back to their inhuman souls. They can ruin each other. 

 

"Okay," Pariston says. He's relaxed and dangerous. He licks his lips idly. "Will keep that in mind."

 

Mizaistom relaxes back against the pillows. "Thank you."

 

Pariston covers Mizaistom's eyes with his hand. His skin smells of his expensive chocolate-scented moisturizer. "That's your second no. You only get one more. Use it wisely."

 

Mizai obediently closes his eyes again. "Yes."

 

"Yes, what?"

 

Pariston is so cruel. Mizaistom trembles. 

 

"Yes, sir."

 

Another evil little laugh. "Good boy. So obedient. You only take what you're given."

 

Pariston leans down again, drapes himself over Mizai's body. He's so light against him. Almost weightless. His protuding ribs are sharp little points of contact. 

 

"You don't get to ask for more," he whispers in his ear, his breath colder than it should be, "do you, number 25?"

 

Mizaistom cries. He can feel Pariston's awful sharp smile. 

  
  


-

 

Cheadle brings him a cup of espresso and a bunch of papers in the morning. 

 

He smiles when he sees her pushing the door to his office open. 

 

"Good morning, you," he says. 

 

Cheadle is the most beautiful thing in the world to Mizai most days. Most days, when he's not driving himself down the boulevard of trauma to meet up with Pariston at night or looking out the window and daydreaming about Ging, she's everything in his life that matters. 

 

She smiles weakly. "Good morning." 

 

He gets up from his cushioned tall chair behind his desk so she can sit on it. Normally, when he does this, she protests, but today she must be tired enough that she just lets herself fall on it. 

 

"Not that I don't absolutely love to see you," Mizai says, as he takes the expresso gently from her hand, "and I really appreciate the coffee, but do you want to talk about what happened?"

 

She throws the papers on top of the desk in one of her demonstrations of frustration Mizai is so familiar with. They nearly slide off the smooth wooden surface.

 

He takes hold of them and skims the first page.

 

"This is from the hospital," he notices dumbly. "Department of Complaints? Is that even a thing?"

 

Cheadle laces her fingers together on top of her lap. "It is. It's a lawsuit - or, well, will be if I don't solve it." 

 

Her back is very straight, her hands together as if she's creating a wall between herself and the rest of the world. Cheadle's anger has always been righteous and proper. 

 

_ She's so pretty,  _ Mizai thinks idly.  _ She's the only person I love. _

 

"What do you mean a lawsuit?"

 

She takes a deep breath. Her stethoscope is still around her neck, her white coat thrown on top of her clothes. "I made a mistake. A couple of years ago. This one man - couldn't be older than thirty - came into the neurosurgical wing. I was doing a shift there and his case came to me and I diagnosed him wrongly; I did an unnecessary operation, and he went home - he died a few months ago. I know it's not my fault, I know this for a medical fact, the operation had no influence on his life expectancy, but the father is convinced my incompetence killed his son and now I have to convince him I didn't."

 

"Oh," Mizai says. "Oh, that's so awful." he crouches down next to her to get closer to her eye-level, tentatively reaches for her hand. "I'm so sorry you have to go through this. Is there any way I can help? I could try and reach for the hospital's legal representative, maybe they can spare you of the worst parts of the meeting -"

 

She shakes her head but allows him to take her hand. Her glove feels soft against his palm. 

 

"I'm ready to do this myself," she declares, trying to sound as brave as possible, "but I just needed to get away from that place for a while." She looks up at him, her bright eyes hopeful and pleading. "Are you busy right now?"

 

He doesn't even spare a glance to the pile of paperwork he has to get done for the next day. He's always busy, being the Hunter Association lawyer means there's someone giving him things to do at all times, but Cheadle has been, and always will be, his priority over anything else. 

 

"No." he gets up to grab his coat. "Do you want to go eat something? We can go to that bakery you like."

 

Her shoulders relax immediately. Her relief is palpable. "As long as the Rat isn't there," she says.

 

It says a lot about all of their dynamics that both of them know Pariston is fond of the macarons from the bakery down the street.

 

"He isn't. He's in a meeting with the Blacklist department."

 

Cheadle takes her stethoscope off and puts it in the pocket of her white coat. She allows Mizai to loop his arm around hers and doesn't ask why he knows the Vice-Chairman's schedule. "How ironic, the biggest criminal of all telling other people how to catch criminals."

 

"Takes one to know one."

  
  


-

  
  


Pariston lets himself fall on his back beside Mizai. He's breathless and smiling his awful, sharp smile. 

 

"How come you're nice to everyone but me?" he asks in his sing-song voice. He traces the bruises left behind on his thighs with the tip of his fingers. 

 

When Pariston isn't trying to kill you, Mizaistom has noticed, he's trying to seduce you. Sometimes both at the same time. 

 

It's early in the morning. They're both going to be late to the meeting. 

 

Mizai takes the blanket and throws it over his naked body. He doesn't like being naked for people. He doesn't like it when people are naked for him. He especially doesn't like it when it's Pariston, because he's unfairly gorgeous but his collarbones are visible and so are his ribs and the breakable bones in his scarred wrists, and he looks so fragile Mizai feels the urge to take care of him. 

 

"There are exceptions to every rule," Mizai says. His phone buzzes on the bedside table. It's probably Netero sending filthy teasing texts about him and Pariston fucking. 

 

Pariston hums. He climbs over Mizai and their faces are very close to each other. He stares at him unblinkingly for longer than it should be possible, before throwing himself on the bed again. 

 

"You're lying," he says. 

 

Mizai frowns. 

 

"You are. You don't want to admit it because you think I'm a terrible person, but you'd give anything to save me, just like you want to save everyone." Pariston props himself up on his elbow. He wears his naked body like it's both a weapon and a masterpiece. 

 

"Not everything is about you, Pariston."

 

Pariston falls back on the mattress. "You can be so cruel, handsome. You're not nearly as righteous as you think you are, you know?"

 

"Stop dragging me with you." 

 

Pariston laughs and stretches his arms over his head. He sounds maniacal. "You always get so angry after you fuck me. You never get this mad when you fuck Ging. Is it because Ging doesn't care enough to tell you the truth?"

 

Mizaistom decides he doesn't have to deal with this in the morning. He gets up and gathers energy to shower. 

  
  


-

  
  


Ging arrives at his office very late at night. 

 

It's a rainy night. Ging's soft hair is wet and weighed down. 

 

"Good evening, Ging," Mizai says, putting his pen to the side. 

 

They haven't seen each other in at least a year, before he and Pariston got divorced. He still looks as handsome as he did before. 

 

He sits on Mizaistom's beautiful wooden desk. Drops of water fall on top of important paperwork that was already ruined by Pariston's terrible habit of signing forms with pink gel glitter pens. 

 

"Yo." 

 

"How can I help?" Mizai asks. 

 

Ging laughs sardonically. He sounds like his ex-husband. "Some things never change."

 

Mizaistom would rather not think about the implications of that particular sentence.

 

Ging reaches inside his backpack and takes out a thick volume of paperwork. He throws it on the desk. 

 

"Here," he says. "You're the lawyer. You deal with this. I can't anymore."

 

Mizai opens the document. It's a divorce lawsuit. Or at least, it should be; as he leafs through it, he witnesses a quick, insane escalation of a procedure that should be simple turning into a convoluted mess spanning entire continents and mind-blowing amounts of money and  _ at least _ one or two homicides. 

 

He doesn't even know where to start with this. 

 

"Is Pariston's middle name Alexander?" he asks, stupidly. Ging rolls his eyes. 

 

"Yes, but don't call him that." 

 

Mizaistom raises an inquiring eyebrow.

 

"It's one of the quickest ways of triggering him into one of  _ those _ episodes. You know the ones."

 

Mizai does know them. He lets it be and continues leafing through the thick lawsuit. 

 

"Holy shit, Ging," he says, stopping at a particular page that talks about the murder of a Prime-Minister in a country on the other damn side of the world. "This is absolutely insane. How did you two even manage to do this?"

 

Ging sighs. "Paris is a master at throwing tantrums. This is the international, fucked-up version of one of his tantrums. It has been going forever, and he will not let me back off."

 

"Not that you would do so if he let you," Mizai murmurs. This is a legal nightmare. He relaxes back against his chair. "This is going to take me two or three days just to analyze the whole thing. I've never seen a legal procedure escalate to these levels."

 

"I'm in no rush," Ging says, kicking the air idly. "I finished up my latest expedition and need to plan the next one. I was thinking of sticking around Swardani for a little while. I need to meet up with the pervy old man and Kite anyway. That is, if you can help."

 

The magical word. The word Pariston has found out is the quickest way of manipulating Mizai into doing something, anything.

 

"Yes, Ging. Of course I'll help."

 

Ging gives one of his brilliant, sunlight smiles and kicks the air faster. "Fantastic."

 

Mizai gets up from his chair and reaches to grab his coat. The lawsuit goes inside his suitcase. It's rainy and cold outside. "Do you want to stay over at my place while I take a look at this?"

 

Ging's smile turns a bit sharp at the corner. Again, he looks like his ex-husband. "Sure."

 

 

-

 

 

Cheadle takes Earl Grey tea, Ging takes black coffee with two sugars, Pariston takes cappuccino or mocha, Netero takes latte.

 

Mizai knows everyone's coffee orders. 

 

Ging has his beautiful legs crossed as he sips from a cup of coffee. He's wearing nothing but black boxers and one of Mizai's button-up shirts, open all the way down to his stomach. 

 

It's a rainy morning. Ging always brings the rain with him. Maybe because he shines brighter when everything else is grey around him. 

 

"When was it?" he asks suddenly.

 

Mizai continues frying eggs for their breakfast. "When was it, what?"

 

"When did you fuck Paris? It was last week, right?"

 

Mizai tightens his grip on the fork before sighing in defeat. "Yes. How can you tell?" 

 

"His scent. His aura. It's all over the place." Ging doesn't sound bothered. He takes another sip of his coffee. "His Nen is the most awful I've ever seen. It's kinda unforgettable." 

 

"I have yet to see his Nen ability."

 

"That's not an experience you want to have, trust me." 

 

Ging hops off the chair and pads up to Mizai to peek at what he's making. 

 

"Can I hug you?" he asks. 

 

Mizaistom nods. Ging nods in turn and wraps his arms around his middle and hugs him from behind, pressing a kiss to the spot between his shoulderblades. Ging's body is always warm, his arms always strong and his hugs comfortable. Being with Ging is fun. Exhilarating. Bright like a summer day. 

 

Mizai puts the scrambled eggs on a plate and sets out to make toast. He doesn't get to have this, he reminds himself. People like him don't get to have people like Ging. Being alive is enough. Being free is a luxury. Ging is a miracle he doesn't deserve. 

 

He feels a tug at his shirt until he turns around. Ging's big, honest eyes are looking up at him. 

 

"Oh, Mizai," he says. 

 

Mizaistom swallows dry. "What?"

 

"You're so broken."

 

Cold rain falls outside. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "somebody cover up my ears  
> somebody save me from my heart  
> somebody take me far from here  
> and rip the speakers out my car."
> 
> (i'm so tired... - troye sivan feat lauv)
> 
> tw: explicit, unhealthy sexual content (paris fucks cheadle and mizai watches and it's all consensual but also terrible)

Mizai always wakes up at 7 in the morning. Sharp as a clock, no alarms needed, no matter the night he had, or the nightmares he cried his way through. 

 

Some mornings, he still expects to wake up with a terrified startle at the sound of a glass door sliding open and black designer shoes walking towards him. 

 

Some mornings, he can still smell it. The chemicals. The blood. The cold metal of the scalpels and needles. 

 

Cruelty has a scent and most days Mizai can still smell it on his skin. 

 

He always wakes up at 7 in the morning because the doctor woke him up at 7 in the morning and some habits never die. 

 

The Doctor. Mizai still remembers his surname. It started with a T and went on, sharp and insulting, like a slap to the face. Mizai never says it out loud, even if he thinks about it every day. 

 

He never found out his first name, though. It's like the Doctor wasn't human and only humans have first names. 

 

Mizai didn't have a name either, back then. He had a number and very little else. A tiny room with three very white walls and a glass door. A bed. 

 

He had a number.

 

He shuts his mind off and blindly reaches for his phone on his bedside table. He lives in an extremely tall building with an extremely large master bedroom. His bed is so large he couldn't fall off it even with his worst nightmares. The walls are painted grey or light brown. The windows always let the sunlight in. 

 

He has a text from Pariston. 

 

_ Come to my office at 8:30; _

_ I have something for you. _

_ <3 _

 

It's not often Pariston uses his authority as Vice-Chairman - in theory, and in practice, he outranks everyone but Netero, and while he makes it a point to remind the Zodiacs of that every other day, he rarely outright gives them direct orders. When he does, none of them have nearly enough influence to refuse him. 

 

Mizai was born following orders. It's what kept him alive until this day. He texts back,  _ Will be there _ , gives himself just twenty more seconds to stay in bed, and finally gets up. 

 

-

 

Mizai sits very straight on the chair, hands grasping the armrests. 

 

Pariston has his hands on Cheadle's hips as he pulls her back against him and fucks all coherence out of her. 

 

The sunlight is harsh outside, but Pariston has always been extremely sensitive to light, Mizaistom has known that much since he was introduced to him for the first time almost a decade ago; and so the blinds are closed, as they always are, and the Vice-Chairman's office is poorly illuminated. 

 

Cheadle started crying about five minutes ago. She's vocal and loud and responsive; the side of her face is pressed against the perfectly smooth surface of Pariston's desk, her hands curled into fists. 

 

" _ Yes, _ " she moans, voice drawling out in such heated pleasure it barely sounds like her, tears streaming down her pretty face, " _ yes, God, please, harder, please -" _

 

Mizai stays put. Pariston hasn't allowed him to move, so he won't. 

 

Pariston's smile is awful and cutting and bloody. He lifts one hand and scratches at Cheadle's scalp tenderly before wrapping her hair around his fist and pulling sharply. 

 

She screams. Mizai grips the armrest tighter. Pariston lets out a breathless laugh and fucks her harder.

 

“Such a good little puppy,” he snarls. His heated, sick gaze shifts to Mizai for a moment, and he moans. “God, Mizai, the look on your  _ face. _ ”

 

Mizai knows what he means. He probably looks ruined. Pariston gets off on breaking people.

 

“I would do this all day, if I could. Lock you both up in my house and fuck you as much as I wanted to," he says, his thrusts forceful as if he's trying to steal something from Cheadle with nothing but fucking. 

 

Knowing him, it's probably working. 

 

Cheadle's eyes are hazy and glassed over. The weak sunlight coming from under the blinds caresses the outline of her face. She looks like she's barely there.

 

If Mizai could, he would get up and take her face in his hands and slowly coax her back into reality. 

 

He would give anything to take care of her. Anything. He would give anything to be able to take her in his lap and make love to her gently and kiss up the pretty column of her neck and allow her to melt in his arms. 

 

But Pariston hasn't allowed him to move, so he won't. He sits in his chair, his back ramrod straight, and watches and gets impossibly hard as Pariston fucks his best friend and calls her a whore. 

 

_ You're not nearly as righteous as you think you are, you know. _

 

When he’s done with her - for all he talks and all the filthy words he says, Pariston is quiet when he comes, eerily so - he pulls out, grips her hair and throws her on Mizai's lap. He smiles. “Your turn.”

 

Pariston's cum is sliding down Cheadle's beautiful thighs and staining Mizai’s trousers. Idly, he notices her feet are bare. He wonders where her new slippers are. She was so excited when she bought them last week.

 

Her eyes are filled with tears, and she puts her arms around Mizai’s neck like she's clinging for dear life. 

 

“Mizai _ , please _ ," she sobs, hiding her face on the crook of his neck. Her breath is warm on his skin. The fabric of her cotton undershirt is soft. For a moment he forgets what he's supposed to do. 

 

The weak sunlight hits Pariston in the cheek when he bends down to grab his expensive designer pants. He narrows his eyes as if it's a personal offense against him. His pretty lips are bloody where Cheadle bit them. She has sharp little canines. 

 

It's all so silent. Nothing except Cheadle's sobs and Pariston pulling on his clothes again. 

 

"What do you say, boy?" Pariston drawls, condescending and awful. His voice cuts through everything. It leaves a scratch on Mizai's face. He thinks he starts bleeding.

 

Mizai swallows dry. He's so hard it hurts. Pariston always makes it hurt. "Thank you, Vice-Chairman."

 

A scoff. "So polite."

 

Cheadle's warm and alive on his lap, her thighs trembling a bit when he tentatively caresses them, her breasts soft against his chest. 

 

Pariston walks up behind her, traces Mizai's jaw with the tip of his finger. Pulls on his earring. "C'mon, she's asking so nicely," he smirks. He looks so young. Too young. "Don't be mean."

 

Mizai takes a deep breath. Grips her tighter and thrusts up in her. She throws her head back and screams his name. 

 

When they kiss, Pariston keeps his hand on the back of Cheadle's neck. 

 

On his ring finger, there's still a faint mark of where his wedding ring used to be.  

 

-

 

"Why do we let him do this to us?" Mizai asks breathlessly when he's done with his final lap. Cheadle sits on the edge of the pool, her small feet kicking the water. 

 

"It's easier," she says. He swims up closer to her and leans his head on her lap, his fingers lightly clasped around her ankles. He inhales and exhales rhythmically to try and catch his breath.

 

"Easier than what?"

 

She smiles down at him. 

 

Her handsome boy. They love each other so much. 

 

She takes off his swimming cap and brushes his humid buzzed-short hair back with the tips of her fingers. "Thinking. About things. It's easier to just let someone else make the decisions for a while."

 

He presses a soft kiss to her knee. Cheadle's wearing a soft green full-body swimsuit with little pawprints on it. 

 

She's gorgeous. 

 

After he escaped, Cheadle was the first beautiful thing he'd seen in his entire life. He used to - and still does - marvel at every little thing she did; all the tiny quirks (she sticks out the tip of her tongue when she's focused, she crosses her legs when she's nervous, she tilts her head to the right side when she's confused and to the left when she's bored, she can't fall asleep sitting down but she does manage to if she has something - or someone - to lean against, she gets sleepy every day around 2 pm) and the small details (the white scar on her thumb, one of her nails that's shorter than the others, her cheeks that always get rosy in the summer, how she covers her mouth with both hands when she yawns), no matter how inconsequential, became everything Mizai has ever truly cared about, the pieces that make up the person he loves the most. 

 

He wants to marry her sometimes. 

 

But he knows he doesn't get to have that. Cheadle is everything good in the world. She deserves a real, functional person, not the ugly, scarred remnants of a failed laboratory experiment who can barely get out of bed most days. 

 

"You don't deserve it, though," he says. He eyes the awful purple, almost bloody bruise Pariston left behind on her neck. 

 

Almost as if in response to his worried gaze, she touches the mark carefully and averts his eyes. "Neither do you."

 

The chlorinated water is warm around Mizai's body. He floats. Only the tips of his toes touch the tiles below him. If he stays like this, the scar on his collarbone doesn't burn with ghost pain and the numbers curled around his mind don't tighten around his brain and time doesn't pass. 

 

"I wish Ging was here," he says. 

 

Cheadle moves her feet in the water. Her toenails are painted a soft baby blue. 

 

"Don't we all."

 

They're so much like children, Mizai thinks. Always waiting for the miracle to happen. Except their miracles get bored quickly and daily life stretches on. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im slow and off today and i have no idea if this is decent

**Author's Note:**

> im....so sorry....i dont know what happened to me  
> some stuff in there is hcs that i never got to explore in other fics (like mizai's backstory and trauma which i do Not have the guts or the writing ability to write about just now, or ging and pariston's divorce lawsuit having spanned entire continents in the international version of a histrionic breakup, amongst other things)  
> its 2 in the morning and i apologize


End file.
